Bleeding Hearts, Page 2

  Archie was their son, seventeen years old and the ‘computer player’ in a pop group. Eleanor had never heard of anyone ‘playing’ the computer as a musical instrument, until Archie had shown her. Now his band were making their second record, their first having been a success in local clubs. She went to the bottom of the stairs and called him. There was no answer.

  ‘He’s like bloody Dracula,’ complained Freddy. ‘Never seen in daylight hours.’ Mrs Elfman threw him a nasty look, and Eleanor went through to her study.

  Eleanor Ricks was a freelance investigative journalist who had somehow managed to make a name for herself without recourse to the usual ‘investigations’ of pop stars, media celebrities, and royalty. But then one day she’d found that magazines wanted to send round journalists to profile her, and she’d started to rethink her career. So now, after years of newspaper and magazine articles, she was finally going into television — just, it seemed, as Freddy was moving out of it. Poor Freddy: she gave him a moment’s thought, then started work.

  Today she was interviewing Molly Prendergast, the Secretary of State for Social Security. They were meeting at a central hotel. They wouldn’t be talking about anything concerning the Department of Social Security, or Molly Prendergast’s position there, or even her standing in her own political party. It was much more personal, which was why they were meeting in a hotel rather than at the Department’s offices.

  It was Eleanor’s idea. She reckoned she’d get more out of Molly Prendergast on neutral ground. She didn’t want to hear a politician talking; she wanted to hear a mother ...

  She went through her notes again, her list of questions, press clippings, video footage. She spoke with her researchers and assistant by phone. This was an initial interview, not intended for broadcast. Eleanor would take a tape recording, but just for her own use. There wouldn’t be any cameras or technicians there, just two women having a chat and a drink. Then, if Prendergast looked useful to the project, there’d be a request for a proper on-screen interview, asking the same or similar questions again. Eleanor knew that the Molly Prendergast she got today would not be the one she’d get at a later date. On screen, the politician would be much more cautious, more guarded. But Eleanor would use her anyway: Prendergast was a name, and this story needed a name to get it some publicity. Or so Joe kept telling her.

  The batteries for her tape recorder had been charging up overnight. She checked them, taping her voice then winding it back to listen. The recorder, though small, had a stereo microphone built into it and a tiny but powerful external speaker. She would take three C90 tapes with her, though it was expected to be an hour-long interview. Well, it might overrun, or a tape might snap. What was she thinking of? It wouldn’t overrun. Two C90s would do it. But she’d best take a lot of batteries.

  She rewound the video compilation and studied it again, then went to her computer and tweaked some of her questions, deleting one and adding two new ones. She printed off this new sheet and read it over one more time. Then she faxed it to her producer, who phoned back with the okay.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘I’m sure. Look, don’t worry about this, Lainie.’ She hated him calling her ‘Lainie’. One day, she’d tell him to his face ... No, that wasn’t true, was it? It was a small price to pay for Joe Draper’s backing. Joe was an excellent producer, if, like so many of his television colleagues, a bit of a prima donna. He’d earned his money doing a cop drama series and a couple of sitcoms (one of them with Freddy playing the errant next-door neighbour), then had set up his own production company, which specialised in documentaries and docu-dramas. These were good days for independent producers, so long as you knew your market and had a few contacts in the TV broadcasting companies. Joe had plenty of friends: his weekend coke parties at his home in Wiltshire were very popular. He’d invited her along a couple of times, but had neglected to invite Freddy.

  ‘You forget, Joe, I’m new to this, I can’t be laid back like you.’ Okay, so she was fishing for a compliment, and of course, Joe knew it.

  ‘Lainie, you’re the best. Just do what you’re best at. Talk to her, open her up, then sit back and look interested. That’s it. You know, like you were a ...’ Here it came, another of Joe’s tortured similes. ‘A lion tamer. You go in there, crack your whip, and when she starts to do the trick, you can relax and take the applause.’

  ‘You really think it’s that simple, Joe?’

  ‘No, it’s hard work. But the secret is, don’t make it look like hard work. It should be smooth like the baize on a snooker table, so smooth she doesn’t know she’s been potted till she’s falling into the pocket.’ He laughed then, and she laughed with him, amazed at herself. ‘Look, Lainie, this is going to be good TV, I can feel it. You’ve got a great idea, and you’re going about it the right way: human interest. It’s been a winning formula since TV had nappies on. Now go to it!’

  She smiled tiredly. ‘All right, Joe, I will.’ Then she put down the phone.

  Satisfied, Eleanor phoned for a bike messenger. She wrote a covering note, put it with a copy of the questions into a large manila envelope, and wrote Prendergast’s name and her home address on the front of it. When the bike arrived she hesitated before letting him take the envelope. Then she closed the door and exhaled. She thought she might throw up, but didn’t. That was it. Those were the questions she’d be running with. There was little else to do until five o‘clock but panic and take a few pills and try on clothes. Maybe she’d go out for a little while to calm herself down, walk to Regent’s Park and along the perimeter of the Zoo. The fresh air and the grass and trees, the children playing and running or staring through the fence at the animals, these things usually calmed her. Even the jets overhead could have an effect. But it was fifty-fifty. Half the time, after they calmed her she had to sit on a park bench and cry. She’d bawl and hide her face in her coat, and couldn’t explain to anyone why she was doing it.

  She couldn’t explain, but she knew all the same. She was doing it because she was scared.

  In the end she stayed home. She was soaking in the bath when the phone rang. Mrs Elfman had already gone home, having once more informed Eleanor that she would not touch Archie’s room until he’d sorted the worst of it out for himself. Freddy had left for his sou‘wester cereal slot, not even saying goodbye or wishing her luck. She knew he wouldn’t be home again. He’d stop in one of his many pubs to talk to other embittered men. It would be seven or eight before he came back here. As for Archie, well, she hadn’t seen him in days anyway.

  She’d let the phone ring for a while — what could be so important? — but then realised it might be Molly Prendergast querying or nixing one of the new questions. Eleanor reached up and unhooked the receiver from the extension-set on the wall above the bath. It had seemed mad at the time, a phone in the bathroom, but it came in useful more often than they’d thought.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Eleanor?’

  ‘Geoffrey, is that you?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘You always seem to catch me in the bath.’

  ‘Lucky me. Can we talk?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  Geoffrey Johns was Eleanor’s solicitor, and had been for fifteen years. Occasionally, her journalism had landed her with an injunction, a libel suit or a court appearance. She knew Geoffrey very well indeed. She could imagine him seated in his grandfather’s chair in his grandfather’s office (also at one time his father’s office). The office was stuffy and gloomy, the chair uncomfortable, but Geoffrey wouldn’t make any changes. He even used a bakelite telephone, with a little drawer in the base for a notepad. The phone was a reproduction and had cost him a small fortune.

  ‘Humour me,’ she said, lying back further in the water. A telephone engineer had told her she couldn’t electrocute herself, even if the receiver fell in the water. Not enough volts or something. All she’d feel was a tingle. He’d leered as he’d said
it. Just a tingle.

  ‘I think you know,’ Geoffrey Johns repeated, drawling the words out beyond their natural limits. Eleanor had a feeling he spoke so slowly because he charged by the hour. When she didn’t say anything he sighed loudly. ‘Are you doing anything today?’

  ‘Nothing much. I’ve an interview this afternoon.’

  ‘I thought we might meet.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

  ‘No?’ Another silence, another pause. ‘Look, Eleanor — ’

  ‘Geoffrey, is there something you want to say?’

  ‘I ... no, I suppose not.’

  ‘Look, Geoffrey, you’re one of the dearest people I know.’ She halted. It was an old joke between them.

  ‘My rates are actually very reasonable,’ he supplied, sounding mollified. ‘What about next week? I’ll buy you lunch.’

  She ran the sponge between her breasts and then over them. ‘That sounds heavenly.’

  ‘Do you want to fix a date now?’

  ‘You know what I’m like, Geoffrey, I’d only end up changing it. Let’s wait.’

  ‘Fine. Well, as the Americans say, have a nice day.’

  ‘It’s gone two, Geoffrey, the best of the day’s already over.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ said Geoffrey Johns.

  She reached up to replace the receiver in its cradle, and wondered if Geoffrey would try charging her for the call. She wouldn’t put it past him. She lay in the bath a little longer, until there was just enough hot water left in the tap to let her shower off. She ran her fingers through her hair, enjoying the sensation, then towelled briskly and set off naked to the bedroom for her clothes.

  She’d had her yellow and blue dress cleaned specially, and was glad the day was sunny. The dress worked best in sunlight.

  3

  I took a cab from the hotel. My destination was only a ten-minute walk away, but I knew I’d be less conspicuous in a taxi. London cab-drivers aren’t, in my experience, the all-knowing and inquisitive individuals they’re often made out to be. They nod at you when you tell them your destination, and that’s about it. Of course, mine had one comment ready as I got into his cab.

  ‘What you got there then, a bazooka or something?’

  ‘Photographic equipment,’ I answered, though he showed no interest. I had manoeuvred the long metal box into the back of the cab, where, angled between the top corner of the rear window and the bottom front corner of the door diametrically opposite, it afforded me scant space for myself. It was longer than it needed to be; but it was also the shortest adequate box I could find.

  It was silver in colour, with three clasp-locks and a black carrying-handle. I’d bought it in a specialist shop for photographers. It was used for carrying around rolls of precious background paper. The shop assistant had tried to sell me some graduated sheets — they were on special offer — but I’d declined. I didn’t mind the box being too big. It did anything but announce that there was a gun inside.

  In the movies, the local assassin tends to carry a small attaché case. His rifle will be inside, broken down into stock, fore-end and barrel. He simply clips the parts together and attaches his telescopic sight. Of course, in real life even if you get hold of such a weapon, it would not be anything like as accurate as a solid one-piece construction. Normally, I’d carry my rifle hanging from a special pouch inside my raincoat, but the PM was just too long and too heavy. So instead of walking, I was taking a taxi to the office.

  I’d been watching the weather for a couple of hours, and had even phoned from the hotel for the latest Met Office report. Clear, but without bright sunshine. In other words, perfect conditions, the sun being a sniper’s worst enemy. I was chewing gum and doing some breathing exercises, though I doubted they’d be effective in my present cramped condition. But it was only a few minutes until the driver was pulling into the kerb and dropping me outside the office block.

  This was a Saturday, remember, and though I was in central London my destination wasn’t one of the main thoroughfares. So the street was quiet. Cars and taxis waited for the lights to change further down the road, but the shops were doing slow business and all the offices were closed. The shops were at street level, the usual mix of ceramics studios, small art galleries, shoe shops, and travel agents. I paid the driver and eased the carrying-case out on to the pavement. I stood there until he’d driven off. Across the street were more shops with offices above, and the Craigmead Hotel. It was one of those old understated hotels with overstated room rates. I knew this because I’d toyed with staying there before opting for a much safer choice.

  The building I was standing outside was a typical central London office complex, with four steps up to an imposing front door, and a facade which in some parts of the city would hide a huge family home broken up into flats. Indeed, the building next-door had been converted to flats on all but its ground and first floors. My chosen site, however, was currently being gutted and reshaped to offer, as the billboard outside put it, Luxury Office Accommodation for the 21st Century.

  I’d been along here yesterday and the day before, and again earlier today. During the week, the place was busy with workmen, but this being Saturday the main door was locked tight, and there was no sign of life inside. That’s why I’d chosen it over the flats next door, which offered the easier target but would probably be in use at weekends. I walked up to the main door and worked the lock. It was a simple Yale, not even permanently fixed. The real locks would come later on in the renovation. Meantime, there being little inside worth pinching, the contractors hadn’t bothered with a quality lock.

  They hadn’t got round to installing the alarm system yet either: another reason for my choice. Wires led out of the front wall into fresh air. Later, they’d be hooked up to the alarm and a casing put over the whole. But for now security was not the main concern.

  I’m not the world’s greatest locksmith, but any housing-estate teenager could have been into the place in seconds. I walked into the entrance hall, taking my carrying-case with me, and closed the door behind me. I stood there for a minute listening to the silence. I could smell drying plaster and wet paint, planed wood and varnish. The downstairs looked like a building site. There were planks and panels of Gyproc and bags of cement and plaster and rolls of insulation. Some of the floorboards had been lifted to allow access to wiring ducts, but I didn’t see any fresh rolls of electrical cable: the stuff was probably too valuable to be left lying around. The electrical contractor would take it away with him every night in his van and bring it back again next day. I knew a few electricians; they’re careful that way.

  There were also no power-tools lying around, and very few tools of any description. I guessed they’d be locked away somewhere inside the building. There was a telephone on the floor, one of those old slimline models with the angular receiver resting over the dial. It was chipped and dotted with paint, but more surprisingly was attached to a phone-point on the wall. I lifted the receiver, and heard the familiar tone. I suppose it made sense: this was going to be a long job; there’d have to be some means of communication between the gang and their base. I put back the receiver and stood up.

  Since I hadn’t been in the place before, I knew I had to get to know it quickly. I left the case in the reception area and headed upstairs. Some doors had been fitted, but none were locked, except one to a storage area. I presumed that was where the tools were kept.

  I found the office I needed on the second floor.

  The first floor was too close to ground level. There was always the chance of some pedestrian glancing up, though they so seldom did. The third floor, on the other hand, made the angle a little too difficult. I might have accepted its challenge, but I knew I needed a good hit. No time for games today, it had to be fast and mundane. Well, not too mundane. There was always my calling card.

  My chosen office was as chaotic as any other part of the building. They were fitting a false ceiling, from which fell power points, probably fo
r use with desktop computers. The ceiling they were putting up, a grid of white plastic strips, would be hiding the real ceiling, which was ornately corniced with an even more ornate central ceiling-rose, presumably at one time surrounding the room’s main light fitting, a chandelier perhaps. Well, they’re fucking up old buildings everywhere, aren’t they?

  I checked my exits: there was only the front door. It looked like they were working on a fire exit to the rear of the building, but meantime they’d left all their ladders and scaffolding there, effectively barricading the door. So when I left, I’d have to leave through the front door. But that didn’t worry me. I’ve found that just as attack is the best form of defence, so boldness can be the best form of disguise. It’s the person slinking away who looks suspicious, not the one walking towards you. Besides, attention was going to be elsewhere, wasn’t it?

  The window was fine. There was some ineffective double glazing, which could be slid open, and behind which lay the original sash-window. I unscrewed the window lock and tried opening it. The pulleys stuck for a moment, their ropes crusted with white paint, and then they gave with an audible squeak and the window lifted an inch. With more effort, I opened it a second and then a third inch. This wasn’t ideal. It meant the telescopic sight would be pointing through the glass, while the muzzle would be stuck into fresh air. But I’d carried out an assassination before under near-identical conditions. To be honest, I could probably have forced the window open a bit further, but I think I was looking for just a little challenge.

  I peered out. No one was looking back at me. I couldn’t see anyone in the shops over the road, and no one staring from the hotel windows further along. In fact, some of the shops looked like they were closing for the day. My watch said 5.25. Yes, some of them, most of them, would close at 5.30. The tourists and visitors at the Craigmead Hotel wouldn’t be in their rooms, they’d still be out enjoying the summer weather. By six o‘clock, the street would be dead. I only had to wait.